SVE ĆE TO, MILI MOJ, PREKRITI RUZMARIN SNJEGOVI I ŠAŠ
Sve će to, mili moj, prekriti ruzmarin, snjegovi i šaš
A dvije će pokisle ptice s tvoga oka prhnuti na jug.
Ni jedna suza, ni malo volje, ni jedna slutnja ni glas.
A moglo je bolje.
Gdje, o kaži mi, kad tužne sudba ne boli
I čime od svijeta da se branim,
kao ruža sa dva smiješna trna ili zlom.
Uzalud, uzalud, sve je protiv nas.
All this, my dear, will be covered by rosemary, snowflakes and sedge
All this, my dear, will be covered by rosemary, snowflakes and sedge
And two rainy birds will flutter off south from your somnolent blue eye`s edge
Not a single tear, not a shred of will, not a hunch or sound.
And it could have better
Where, oh tell me, when fate does not hurt the sad
And with what in the world am I to defend myself,
Like a rose with two funny thorns or with hate.
Useless, in vain, everything`s to us against.
Ovu su pjesmu svojatali mnogi, ali ona je, prvo bezimena, s mojeg uzglavlja krenula u svijet.
This poem has been appropriated by many but it, at first nameless, went out into the world from my headboard.
DAT ĊU TI OVU PJESMU
Dat ću ti ovu pjesmu
Ako mi vratiš stihove
ako mi vratiš cvijeće
od bijeloga voska
i modroga sna.
Ako ovo i nije prava pjesma
jer u pravoj pjesmi nikada
ne bih te nazvala mangupom, tatom
nego dušom svojom, zlatom
ti mi ipak vrati moje stihove.
Ako hoćeš, lagat ću ti
ženski zamagljeno,
Ako hoćeš lagat ću ti
mazno, uvijeno
da nikada tebi
nisam napisala stih,
da sve je to samo glupost,
igra dokona
koju od iskona igraju
On i Ona.
Priznat ću ti da se noću
u gorskom jezeru
s punim Mjesecom kupam
da mi vjetar u pohode dolazi
da mi breze otkrivaju sve tvoje tajne
i da su moji prijatelji vukovi
koji male vjeverice od zvijeri čuvaju.
Dat ću ti ovu pjesmu
Ali, vrati mi stihove.
Nisu oni za tebe pisani.
Oni su pisani za Ljubav.
I WILL GIVE YOU THIS POEM
I will give you this poem
If you give me back the verses
if you return my flowersI
made of white wax
and of blue dream.
And if this isn’t a real poem,
because in a real poem never
I would have called you a rowdy or a cheat,
my soul or my gold instead,
you still give me back my verses.
If you want me to, I will lie
womanish blurred
If you want me to, I will lie
cuddly, curled
that never to you
I dedicated a single verse,
that all is just nonsense
an idle game
from ever, forever
for Him and Her to play.
I’ll admit that at night
in a mountain lake
with full Moon I bathe
that a hot breez comes to me for a chat
that birches reveal your secrets to me
that I make friends with wolves
who guard little squirrels from monster beasts.
I will give you this poem.
But give me back the verses.
They ain’t written for you.
They are written for Love.
PJESMA
Napisat ću ti pjesmu
koju će čitati zaljubljeni.
Bit će to pjesma od bola crnja
mekša od sna.
I sreća će njena razletjeti golubove
zanjihati trave
obojiti oblake.
I psovka će biti moja pjesma
i zagrljaj plah
ruka što miluje
i udarce vraća
i mirisat će
na probuđeno cvijeće
na morske alge
na ljubav samu.
I voljet će te moja pjesma
i strast će njena sagorjeti pakao
i stih će njen zazvoniti smijehom
a onda će nestati.
Kao da ga nikada
nije niti bilo.
THE POEM
I`ll write you a poem
that lovers will read.
It will be a poem blacker than pain,
softer than sleep.
Happiness of it will make doves fly
sway grasses
color the clouds.
Curse will be my poem
and timid embrace
a hand that caresses
and strikes back.
And it will smell
of awakened flowers
of seaweed
of love itself.
My poem will love you
its passion will burn hell
its vers will ring with laughter
then disappear.
As if it never was.
HAIKU
U mladom biću
Klija sjeme smrti.
Dar od rođenja.
In a young beeing
Seeds of death germinate.
The gift of birth.
GAVRAN
Kroz korotnu noć
lebdi pero gavrana.
Poruku nosi.
RAVEN
Through the mourning night.
The raven`s feather floats.
A message it carries.
MJESEČINA NA RUKAMA
Nosio si mjesečinu na rukama
I oči jednog starog pjesnika
Koji nas je zaveo neprimjetno, krišom
I s prvom kišom
Nestao u mrak.
MOONLIGHT ON HANDS
You wore moonlight on your hands
And the eyes of an old poet
Who seduced us imperceptibly, under the rose,
With first rain that flows
Disappeared into darkness.
JEDNE JAKE MOSKOVSKE ZIME
Te je zime Moskva još bila crvena
Lenjin besramno izložen
a duge su nam sjenke pratile korake.
Grad nas je zagrlio tiho, kriomice,
raširenih nozdrva, disao nas je željno,
mirisali smo na proljeće.
Ponudio nam je Crveni trg i
crkvu Vasilija Blaženog,
a mi smo tražili Jesenjina.
Pitala sam te u koje je krčme zalazio
je li otresao snijeg sa čizama
je li nosio šubaru, psovao prostački ovu rusku zimu.
Grad nam je nudio Lomonosova i zlatne kupole
a ja sam te pitala zašto su Bloku zapalili biblioteku
i je li ga to jako boljelo.
I što je bilo s Majakovskim? Tražili smo Gilberta
I njegovu Nathalie, tražili po gostionicama
po glazbenim automatima, ali nigdje ih nije bilo.
Samo nas je trojka pokrivene samurovinom
nosila kroz snijeg, a njezini su praporci jasno
zvečali nekim dalekim izgubljenim zimama.
IN A HARSH MOSCOW WINTER
That winter Moscow was still red
Lenin shamelessly exposed
and long shadows followed our steps.
The city embraced us silently, secretly,
with wide nostrils, breathed on us eagerly.
We smelled of spring.
It offered us Red Square and
Church of St. Basil the Blessed.
But we were looking for Yesenin.
I asked you which pubs he frequented,
did he shake the snow off his boots,
whether he was wearing a fur hat, swearing vulgarly at those Russian winters.
The city offered us Lomonosov and golden domes
and I asked you why they burned Blok’s library
and did it hurt him a lot.
And what happened to Mayakovsky? We were looking for Becaud
And his Nathalie in the inns by the jukeboxes.
They were nowhere to be found.
Only troika carried us, wrapped in sable,
through the snow, its harness-bells rattled clearly
by some winters long ago.
AKO BUDEŠ MEĐU NAS DOLAZIO
Ako budeš među nas dolazio
ne čini to ovjenčan sjajem
uzvišen i moćan jer sva će vrata
za tebe biti otvorena.
Ulice će mirisati na smirnu i tamjan
zlato neće biti dovoljno dobro
da te podvore.
Rub tvojeg skuta će cjelivati
a pogledi će biti smjerni.
Ako budeš među nas dolazio
dođi neznan, bos, bijedan i gladan
zemljom zaprljan. I pruži ruku svoju
ne da blagosloviš, nego da išćeš.
Okrenut će se glave od tebe.
Ni drvene zdjele, ni svetoga grala
ni mjesta počinka, ni osmijeha čovjeka.
Čovjek će dizati oči nebesima
ali tebe u čovjeku neće vidjeti.
IF YOU COME AMONG US
If you come among us
Don`t come crowned with splendor
or exalted and mighty, for all doors
will be open to you.
The streets will smell of myrrh and incense
and gold will not be good enough
for them to host you well.
The hem of your cloak will be kissed
and gaze will be pious and humble.
If you come among us
come unknown, barefoot, miserable and hungry
come soiled with dust. Extend your hand
not to bless, but to ask for alms.
Heads will turn away from you.
Neither the wooden bowl, nor the Holy Grail
no resting place or human smile.
Man will look up to the heavens,
but he will not see you in man.
LUNA NAD GRANADOM ŠUTI
Toga proljeća Granada je bila turistički raskošna.
Zagrlila nas je šarmom stare dame
čija čipka miriši tajnom.
Tvoj pogled dječaka i želja muškarca
kojom si me milovao, ukradeni poljupci
sve je to bila vedra, šarena razglednica.
Iz visokih hladnih čaša pili smo sangriju
cvijeće si mi na trgu kupovao, a ja sam
cijelo vrijeme mislila na njega.
Kobila crna, crvena Luna.
Granada ga nije štitila. Mislim da on i dalje putuje
u društvu dva toreadora i jednog učitelja.
Kobila crna, crvena Luna.
Mjesec je bio visoko, nijemi svjedok, bolno lijep.
Svijetla je bila ta crna noć.
Sjetila sam se i onog jednobrkatog, nadarenog
andaluzijskog psa koji ga je okrutno ponizio
zakotrljao po blatu.
I mene je htio šokirati onom glupom
prerezanom zjenicom
rezom preko Sunca.
Rekla sam ti da je idiot i da ne volim
ni njega ni njegove slike, a ti si se smijao
kao što bi se smijao djetetu koje ne zna što govori.
Kobila crna, crvena Luna.
Bojao se. Znam da se je bojao jer svi se bojimo.
A ja sam gledala Lunu nad Granadom.
Željela sam, silno sam željela vratiti film unatrag
premotati život, ali filma nije bilo.
Samo je crvena Luna šutjela nad Granadom.
THE LUNE OVER GRANADA IS SILENT
That spring, Granada was a tourist hotspot.
She embraced us with the charm of an old lady
whose lace smells of mystery.
Your boyish gaze and the manly desire
with which you caressed me, stolen kisses
were nothing but a bright, colorful postcard.
We drank sangria from skinny cold glasses
you were buying me flowers at the market,
and I kept thinking of him.
„Black mare, red Lune.“
Granada didn’t protect him. I think he’s still traveling
accompanied by two toreadors and a teacher.
„Black mare, red Lune.“
The moon stood high, a silent witness, painfully beautiful.
Bright was the black night.
I also remember that one-moustache, gifted
Andalusian dog who cruelly humiliated him
rolled him in the mud.
He wanted to shock me too, with that stupidity
of the slit pupil,
the cut across the Sun.
I told you he was an idiot and that I didn’t like
him or his pictures, and you laughed as you would laugh at a child
who doesn’t know the meaning of what he`s saying.
„Black mare, red Lune.“
He was afraid. I know he was afraid because we all are.
And I was watching the Lune over Granada.
I wanted, I immensely wanted to rewind the movie
rewind life, but there was no movie.
Only the red Lune remained silent over Granada.
NE PITAJ GDJE SMO RASTOČILI MLADOST
Ne pitaj gdje smo rastočili mladost.
Ostala je ona kojekuda.
U automobilima čiji su kotači
pohlepno gutali kilometre,
u nepoznatim sobama
usputnih motela,
na pijesku neke užarene plaže,
u kockarnicama i opskurnim krčmama,
finim restoranima i gladnim danima.
Ostavljali smo je po ulicama i parkovima
gradova koje nikada nećemo zvati svojima
i koji nas se baš nimalo ne tiču.
Gubili smo je tragajući za jednim
dragim ruskim pjesnikom
koji je umro mlad i nesretan.
I svijeću smo mu zapalili, iako
ne vjerujemo u rituale,
a njegove smo stihove izgovarali pobožno
i pjevušili ih melodijom balade
drhteći od žudnje i surove moskovske zime.
Imali smo te mladosti po svim zakutcima Europe
koja još nije bila prenapučena,
kada se u Francuskoj govorio francuski,
a njemački je Ober znao izgovoriti:
Was möchten Sie, bitte?
Imali smo je na pretek, te mladosti,
onih prijeratnih godina
kada je rat bio samo filmska mislena
imenica i nije zvučao stvarno, a onda se
odvrtio u grču, u odlascima
i strahovima,
u čekanju i susretima u kojima
smo se voljeli brzo i žestoko
kao da je smrt nad nama već podigla kosu.
A ona bi nas gledala
začuđeno jer nismo shvaćali da
nas ne želi,
da nam ona samo mladost krade.
Ne pitaj me gdje smo rastočili mladost.
DON’T ASK WHERE WE WASTED YOUTH
Don’t ask where we wasted youth.
We left it someplace
in cars whose wheels
greedily devoured the roads,
in unfamiliar rooms
of roadside motels,
on the sand of some scorching beach,
in casinos and obscure taverns,
in fine restaurants and hungry days.
We left it on the streets and parks
of the cities we will never call our own
and that don`t concern us at all.
We spent our youth searching for
a beloved Russian poet
who died young and sad.
And we lit a candle for him, even though
we don’t believe in rituals,
and we recited his verses piously
and hummed them in the tune of a ballad
shivering with lust and the harsh Moscow cold.
Our young days flourished in all nooks of Europe
which was not overcrowded yet,
when French was spoken in France,
and the German Ober knew how to pronounce:
Was möchten Sie, bitte?
We had it in abundance, that youth,
those pre-war years
when it was just a movie abstract
noun that didn’t sound real, and then
the war twisted in a spasm of departures
and fears
in waiting and meetings in which
we made love fast and hard
as if death had already raised its scythe upon us.
And death would watch amazed
because we didn’t realize
that it didn’t want us yet,
but just steal our breath.
Don’t ask me where we wasted youth.
OPET SI MI HTIO ČITATI PREVERTA
Opet si mi htio čitati Preverta
ali nije me zanio kao onoga puta
kada su se ptice u čudu za nama okretale,
kada su se valovi zaustavili u gibu
a namjernici spuštali poglede jer su se sjetili
vlastitih ludosti.
Ni glas tvoj nije bio isti, ili su njegove riječi
počele blijedjeti.
Ni ta kiša nad Brestom, ni ta Barbara
nisu pokrenule bujicu, ni drhtaj
i to me začudilo, zaustavilo i misao i pokret.
Začara li pjesmu moj osjećaj i gdje se izgubila
ona veza između tebe, mene i njega?
Ne, nemoj mi čitati Preverta.
Možda je stiglo vrijeme šutnje ili urlika
igre koja se zove; povrijedi me,
povrijedit ću te, ili igre; što radiš ovdje,
nisam te očekivala.
I možda bi bilo dobro da si više ne govorimo ti,
da zaboravimo sliku nasmijane djevojke
i da neko vrijeme budemo vi jedno drugome.
Budi hladan, nedostižan, mrk, a ja
ja ću biti daleka, nepoznata neka
sasvim drukčija, tuđa.
A onda mi opet pročitaj Preverta u staroj igri
zavođenja kada će se ptice u čudu za nama okretati,
a valovi zaustaviti u gibu.
AGAIN YOU WANTED READ TO ME PREVERT
Again you wanted read to me Prevert
not as intriguingly as that time
when the birds turned in wonder after us,
when the waves stopped in their tracks
and passerby lowered their gazes
remembering own follies.
Even your voice wasn`t the same, or his words
began to fade.
Neither that rain over Brest, nor Barbara herself,
set off a torrent, or the shiver
and that estonished me, stopping both movement and thought.
Is the poem enchanted by my feelings and where did
that connection between you, me and him get lost?
No, don`t read to me Prevert.
Maybe it`s time for silence or it is time to scream
for a game called; hurt me,
I`ll hurt you, or the game; what are you doing here,
I wasn`t expecting you.
And maybe it would be good if we stopped addressing each other too intimately,
if we forgot about the image of smiling girl
and become more formal for a while.
Be cold, unapproachable, gloomy, and I
will be distant, unknown,
completely different, alien.
Then read to me Prevert again in the old game
of seduction when the birds will turn in wonder after us,
and the waves will stop in their tracks.
SUMRAK U GRANADI
Mirisale su smokve i masline u pliticama
toga sumraka u Granadi.
Šumio je život ispod šarenih suncobrana
kap sangrije na bijelom stolnjaku.
Pitala sam te koji je dio Granade upio krv
andaluzijskog slavuja.
Ulični svirač plakao je flamenco, a jedan je
bailarin pričao svoje strasti utrobom, hladnog lica,
zarobljenim bijesom.
Pljeskao je grad svoj ritam, puten, vruć, tragičan i živ.
Smijao si mi se, prstom si mi obrisao kut usne,
a ja sam iza svih tih slika vidjela njega.
Stajao je sam, ranjiv sa svojim ždrijepcima,
visokim kulama, maslinama u bisagama,
sa svojim gitanosima i golemom Lunom iznad glave.
Samo je stajao i gledao u mrak uperenih cijevi koje će
ubiti tek začetu pjesmu.
THE TWILIGHT IN GRANADA
It smelled like figs and olives in saucers,
that twilight in Granada.
Life was buzzing under the colorful parasols
a drop of sangria on a white tablecloth.
I asked you which part of Granada absorbed the blood
of Andalusian nightingale.
A street musician cried flamenco,
and a bailarin was expressing his passion from the stomach, a cold face,
with pent-up rage.
The city clapped its rhythm, sensual, hot, tragic and cheerful.
You laughted at me, wiped the corner of my lip with your finger,
and behind that all he was the one I saw.
He stood alone, vulnerable with his foals,
with tall towers, olives in saddlebags,
with his Gitanos and the giant Lune overhead.
He just stood and stared into darkness of pointed guns that were
about to kill the newly conceived verse.
TI PAMTIŠ
Ti pamtiš kako sam bosa trčala Bulonjskom šumom
zbog izgubljene oklade,
kako nas je Pariz slijedio trgovima i ulicama
samo da čuje naš smijeh.
Ti pamtiš kako smo ostali gladni jer se garson
izbezumio mojim zahtjevom
da steak ne bude krvav i kako su nas pozdravljale
male kavane uz Seinu.
Ti pamtiš kako sam htjela pješice na Eiffela,
a ti si htio kupiti svu sol raspjevanog grada
da od strme ulice načiniš sanjkalište za mene
baš onako kako je to učinio grof Janko za svoju dragu.
Ti pamtiš kako smo satima sjedili pred Manetom,
jeli kuhana jaja. Bio je to prvi nezabilježeni performans
kada je Doručak na travi dobio dvije nove figure
bezbrižne, zaljubljene.
A noću, kada se cijeli grad pretvori u krijesnicu
vodio si me u Mlin, još čujem Offenbacha,
recitirao si mi Preverta i ja sam malo plakala
jer ja uvijek plačem kada nježan stih čujem.
I sliku si mi na Montmartreu kupio
od nepoznatog slikara. Imao je bradicu,
osmijeh gladnog studenta i francusku kapicu,
a ja sam je negdje usput izgubila.
Ti pamtiš, ti uvijek sve pamtiš.
Zašto ja uvijek sve zaboravim?
YOU REMEMBER
You remember how I ran barefoot all through the Bois de Boulogne
because of a lost bet,
how Paris kept track of us through the squares and streets
just to hear our laughter.
You remember how we were left hungry because the garcon
was freaked out by the request
my steak not to be bloody and how we were greeted
by small cafes along the Seine.
You remember how I decided on foot to climb the Eiffel,
and how you wanted to buy up all singing city`s salt
to turn a steep street for me into a toboggan run
same like Count Janko once did for his sweetheart.
You remember how we sat for hours in front of Edouard Manet,
eating boiled eggs. It was the first unrecorded performance
when Dejeuner sur l`herbe got two new persons
carefree, in love.
And at night, when the whole city turns into a firefly
you took me to Moulin Rouge, I can still hear Offenbach,
you recited Jacques Prevert to me then I cried for a little while
because I always cry when I hear a tender rhyme.
And you bought me a painting in Montmartre
by unrecognized painter, unknown. He had a beard,
smile of a hungry student and a French cap upon,
and I lost it along the way.
You remember, you always remember.
Why do I always forget?
SJEĊANJA
Koračam oprezno
da ne povrijedim
trave.
Miriše ružmarin,
a ljubičice plave
snivaju.
Visoki bor šumori sretno.
Sjeća se dana kada ga posadiše
mlade ruke čovjeka
čiji korak postaje teži, a
misao sjetno slijedi
sjećanja.
MEMORIES
I step cautiously
So as not to hurt
grasses.
Rosemary smells,
and violets blue
they dream.
The tall pine rustles happily.
Remembers day it was planted
by the young hands of a man
whose step grows heavier, and
whose thought tails wistfully
memories.
MIRIS TVOJIH KORAKA
Nisam vidjela koji je to cvijet
u mome vrtu glasno uzdahnuo.
Sjene noći omotale su boje.
Nisam vidjela kako je Mjesec
srebrnim prstima zavezao tamu.
Tek miris se širio zrakom.
Blag. Opojan. Strastan.
Miris tvojih koraka i jednog broda
koji uvijek samo odlazi.
THE SCENT OF YOUR FOOTSTEPS
I didn’t see what flower it was
sighed loudly in my garden.
The night shadows enveloped the colors.
I didn`t see how the moon
bound the darkness with silver fingers.
Only the scent spread through the air.
Mild. Intoxicating. Passionate.
The scent of your footsteps and a ship
that always just leaves away.
STRIJELCI
Naš znak je vatra
iskra, munja, plamen
žeravica topla što grije te
milo.
Al` nemoj joj prići
opak to je znamen
mogao bi spržit
anđeosko krilo.
SAGITTARIUSES
Fire is our sign
sparkle, levin, flame
live coal is an ember that warms you so
dearly.
But don`t near it closely
that’s an evil omen
could fry
angel wing.
SKUPLJAČI USPOMENA
Zima nam se prišuljala tiho. Noću.
Prosula se po palmama, razmetala bjelinom
i smijala našem čuđenju.
Zavodila nas je bajkom. Zaledila stolice
omiljenog kafića, zapalila grijalice iznad stolova,
konobarima navukla rukavice.
Umotao si me u ponuđenu deku boje naranče.
Tvoj smijeh i tvoje oči iznad šalice vrućeg čaja
s morem u pozadini
urezivali su uspomenu.
Kraj Isadorinog kipa si me poljubio,
a ja sam se pitala; je li i nju tako ljubio
onaj Rus, pjesnik i izgrednik,
tako ovlaš k’o da sanja
k’o da sa snijegom odlazi nekud
u tamu, u noć.
Netko od nas dvoje ostat će
sakupljati uspomene.
COLLECTORS OF MEMORIES
Winter crept up on us quietly. At night.
It spilled over the palm trees, showing off its whiteness
and laughed at our astonishment.
It seduced us with a fairy tale, froze the stools
in our favourite cafe, turned on the heaters above the tables,
put gloves on the waiters.
You wrapped me in the offered orange blanket.
Your laughter and your eyes over a cup of hot tea
with the sea in the background
were carving a memory.
By Isadora’s statue you kissed me,
and I wondered if he was kissing her that way too
that Russian, poet and troublemaker,
so barely as if dreaming
as if he’s going somewhere with the snow
into the darkness, into the night.
One of us will stay
to collect memories.
OKO URAGANA
Od vjetra smo se skrili
u oko uragana
gasili smo strasti
u grotlu vulkana.
Tražimo mjesto
gdje tuga stoluje
gdje sve je blisko
gdje radost boluje.
Čudni smo, divlji
i psovka i smijeh
i dječja igra
i crni grijeh.
Divlji smo, čudni
i rame i mač
i rodno polje
i kamen i drač.
THE HURRICANE`S EYE
We hid from the wind
in hurricane`s eye
we quenched our passions
in volcano dive.
Looking for a place
where the sadness rules
where all is familiar
where the joy hurts.
We are strange, wild
both swearing and laughter
both children’s play
and a black sin`s blunder.
We are wild, strange
both shoulder and bleede
the field that bears fruit
both rock and weed.
PROTUHA STARA
Taj život čudan, ta protuha stara
iz trošnoga špila opet karte dijeli
iz rukava vadi, vidimo da vara
mi ipak igramo, a ne bismo smjeli.
Slabe su nam šanse, dama pik i trice
on pun aduta, ne zna što bi s njima
mi sama srca, nevažne sitnice
ulog smo dali za oblake dima.
I još se smije varalica stara
i visok ulog nasred stola baca
nekad za budale, nekad za mudraca
jednako nam laže, mami nas i vara.
Gubimo uvijek, al̛ briga nas nije
sama stara igra ima puno draži
samo igraj sa mnom, moje najmilije
ne misli na ishod, samo igru traži.
OLD TRAMP
Nasty life of ours, that old dirty tramp
deals the cards all over from his marked deck
pulls them out of long sleeves, an obvious scam
we still play the same game, thinking what a heck.
Our chances are slim, queen of spades and trifles
he is full of trump cards, much more than he needs
we`ve nothing but hearts, unimportant nifles
we placed down our bet stakes for cigaret breathes.
And he is still loughing, ancient wheely-dealey
his outrageous pot hat on table he throws
sometimes for a wise man, sometimes for a silly
lies to us equally, tempting us and prowls.
We are always losing, but we never mind
this old game itself has pretty lot of charm
just keep playing with me, little fools of mine
don`t think of an outcome, play it there`s no harm.
NE SLUŠAM VIŠE RUSKE BALADE
Ja srce moje zatvorih u kamen
u njemu sada zatvoren je stih
ne želi dalje, ostaje ko znamen
da sve je privid i odlazak tih.
Svijeće već trnu, a vene cvijeće
te bijele ruže za rastanak naš
plavo i teško spušta se veče
nebeski je slikar odabrao gvaš.
Ne slušam više ruske balade
kamen će zdrobit, rasprsnut će stih
sve što je drago, usud nam krade
u kamen goli ja tebe skrih.
Sva jedra vise i more šuti
ulica je tvoja mokra od kiše
slušam ti korak dok kamen sluti
da nema te nikada više.
I AM LISTENING NO MORE TO RUSSIAN BALLADS
I locked my heart in stone,
where verse is trapped in grip,
will not go any further, remaining as a warn
that all is but illusion and a silent trip.
Candles fade already, flowers wilted, jarred,
these white mourning roses, last farewell panache.
Dusk falls blue and hard
celestial painter chose to put in gouache.
I am listening no more to Russian ballads.
The rock will be crushed, the vers will burst in flare.. .
everything that dear is, fate`s stealing from us,
with a bare stone now I hide you, feel and share.
Lowered sails, as if the sea for something waits,
your street is wet with rain,
I listen to your footsteps while stone anticipates
that you will never ever pass this way again.
CRNE VODE
Trošan pramac broda sada magle vuku
galebu na provi pocrnjelo krilo
horizont je blizu, vidim crnu luku
ne zna bijela ptica što se s nama zbilo.
Zašto crni žali, zašto crna voda
sve je tako mirno, bez glasa, bez riječi
i ta crna žena što po vodi hoda
čeka kad će brodić tu pučinu prijeći.
Horizont je blizu, žena pruža ruku
nestaje nam boje i misao nesta
zove nas u svoju tajanstvenu luku
zgusnulo se more poput žitkog tijesta.
Moj galeb na provi spustio je glavu
naše jedro visi, ne sluša kormilo
prvi puta čujem sad tišinu pravu
rukom pipam srce, ne osjećam bilo.
Zrak na sumpor smrdi, nesta miris soli
more glasno šuti i val se ne pjeni
sve je tako mračno, još me život boli
nismo više bića, sad samo smo sjeni.
BLACK WATERS
Dilapidated prow, being towed by the fogg,
the seagull wing on deck has turned dovely blue,
horizon is nearing, I can see black dock,
white bird has no clue what we have being through.
Why these ghostly seashores, why ebony depths?
Everything is quiet, no sound I can hear,
that macabre woman steps upon the waters
waiting for the boat to cross the open sea.
The horizon nears, she reaches out her hand,
our color has warn out and our thought went flew,
she welcoming calls us to her spooky land,
while the sea has thickened like a paste of glue.
My accomplice seagull lowered his head,
the sail hangs down sadly, rudder in retreat.
Hearing for the first time the true silence dead,
I reach for my poor heart but there is no beat.
The air smells of sulfur, the scent of salt blurs,
the sea is loudly silent and wave doesn`t foam,
everything is shaded and my life still hurts,
we are no longer beings, we are but a gloom.
NA STAZAMA OD STAKLA
Tvoja je ruka
moju ruku takla
hodamo polako
stazama od stakla.
U krošnjama vjetar
nepomičan šuti
debelim su snijegom
zameteni puti.
U snu te tražim
ti me vidiš budnom
u svijetu tihom
nepokretnom, čudnom.
Ovdje nema brana
ni granica čvrstih
tu nema živih
a nema ni mrtvih.
Moje srce drhti
kao malo janje
smiješiš mi se sjetno:
„San je postojanje.“
Tvoja je ruka
moju ruku takla
pucaju polako
te staze od stakla.
ON PATHWAYS OF GLASS
It must have been your hand
gently touching mine,
we are walking slowly
glass pathways entwined.
In the crowns of treetops
wind motionlessly waits
covered with a thick snow
blurred are the road lanes.
In my dreams I find thee
you see me awake
in that world of shadows
immobile and fake.
Here there is no shelter
no boundaries of bad,
there is no living being
and there is no dead.
My poor heart is trembling
like an orphan maid,
you smile at me sadly:
“A dream has prevailed.”
It must have been your hand
gently touching mine,
they are cracking slowly
glass pathways entwined.
RIJEČ UREDNIKA
Ponekad bih se, čitajući Marijinu poeziju, zapitao: „Zašto ove pjesme nisu na popisima srednjoškolske lektire?“ Ne samo zbog stiha: „Sve će to, mili moj, prekriti ruzmarin, snjegovi i šaš“, nego i zbog ostalih pjesama što ćete ih pronaći u ovoj knjizi. Koje su od njih „antologijske“ prepoznat ćete sami, svatko od vas ponaosob. I neće to biti isti stihovi, pretpostavljam.
Ako me upitate zašto sam se odlučio prevoditi Marijine pjesme na engleski jezik, odgovorit ću vam da se to događalo impulsivno, bez ikakve razumske odluke. Jednostavno, počeo sam – na način automatskog pisanja – prevoditi… prvo haiku, samo po nekoliko stihova. Onda se to razvilo u svojevrsnu opsesivnu kompulziju, nisam se više mogao zaustaviti. Još uvijek ne znam kako da se riješim te ovisnosti. Zna li netko od vas za odgovarajuće flastere ili žvakače gume?
EDITOR`S NOTE
While reading Marija’s poetry I sometimes wonder why these poems are not on required lists for high school students? Not just because of the line: “All this, my dear, will be covered by rosemary, snowflakes and sedge”, but also because of the other verses that you will find in this book. Which of them are “anthological” you will recognize yourself, each of you individually. And these won`t be the same lines, I assume.
If you ask me why I decided to translate Marija’s poems into English, it happened impulsively, without any rational decision. I simply started – in the manner of automatic writing – translating… first haiku, just a few verses at a time. Then it developed into a kind of obsessive compulsion. I couldn’t stop it anymore. I still don’t know how to get rid of this addiction. Does anyone know of suitable patches or chewing gums?
Autorica
Author
Marija Juračić
Preveo Josip Ergović
Translated by Josip Ergovic